


Before I Wake

by 3BeesAndCoffee3



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Could Be read as post-fall or as a canon divergence, Dark Will Graham, Dead People, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Kinda?, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Not Canon Compliant, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Season/Series 03, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, To a body anyways, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3BeesAndCoffee3/pseuds/3BeesAndCoffee3
Summary: He sighs, lip bitten red between his teeth in concentration as he presses the edge of the blade along the thorax, down in a neat line to the navel.AKA: Will has given into his needs. Hannibal likes to watch Will create.(Could be interpreted as post-S3 or as Canon divergent)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	Before I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while in a bath, so it’s not long, but I hope you enjoy this gore filled mess.

He thinks about blood, hot and slippery on his hands. The way it flakes and dries under his nails, the way the water runs bright red when he scrubs. It sends a thrill down his spine that nothing else will replicate. It feels good. 

There’s an edge to everything he does, like this nagging sense of aggravation and unease that he can’t quite seem to sate unless he’s got his hands messy with someone’s insides, the feel of his knife pressing into the give of flesh. There’s something about the ragged breathes, the way the blood splatters across every surface like a champagne bottle exploding, it makes that wild, loud and incessant part of his brain quiet. If only for a while. 

He thought once would be enough, not too long ago. He’s not quite so naive now. 

If he’s going to stop now, it’s going to because someone finally pulls the trigger.

He sighs, lip bitten red between his teeth in concentration as he presses the edge of the blade along the thorax, down in a neat line to the navel. Blood bubbles up and makes tiny streams turn to rivers, cascading down the sides of the body, traveling down the indents of the ribs and pooling underneath like a sea of red. 

The air is thick and hot, still, like before a storm. His lungs feel sated and compressed in his chest. 

“How does it feel?” Hannibal asks from behind him. His voice is a low rumble, like thunder. It sends a chill up Will’s spine, goosebumps peppering his feverish skin. He basks in it. 

“Holy,” Will says, quiet. He parts the flesh with his fingers, opening up the incision into a cavern. The blood is cooling inside the body now, no longer scorching like liquid fire as it laps hungrily at his fingers. The body is becoming stiff, less wet and pliable as rigor mortis sets in. 

Hannibal hums contentedly. 

He works quicker, then. The fever of needing to feel bones splintering in his hands, to feel the wet slide of bloody skin under his calloused palms. He needs it more than he needs anything else, more than air. He lets ribs crack and pull apart under the heavy press of his hands, feels fat and tissue peel away. 

He can feel the cooling coagulation of blood soaking into the knees of his pants where he’s knelt at the body. 

He spends his time carful and meticulous as he twists, and breaks, and pulls apart each rib, forms a new cage, mangled and beautiful, protruding from the chest like a crown. He’s breathing heavily by the time he’s done, chest heaving with the labor of his work. 

Hannibal makes a pleased sound, right behind Will’s left ear, breath hot against his skin. “May he sleep now?”

Will rests back on his haunches, hands falling limply at his sides, knife still clutched tight like a lifeline. He looks over his work, sees the way the light shines on the cascading trails of blood, drying dark on pale skin. He sees the shadows, stark and powerful of the bones now sturdy and towering from the cavity of the chest like antlers. He lets his eyes graze over the face last, hair fanned out around it, dark and untangled. The mouth is open wide, to hold the sweet flowers resting past it’s lips, pinks and purples and whites. The body is perfect, eyes vacant and staring up into the open sky. 

They watched Will work through unseeing eyes, every move monitored. He feels truly seen. He feels empowered. 

“Yes,” Will breathes, once he’s done staring back into the dark void of the bodies eyes, a stark contrast to the sweet lily white of its skin. 

Hannibal walks carefully around Will, around the body, until he’s standing in front of it, carefully and gracefully avoiding the pools of crimson Will has made. He crouches down, the clear plastic of his kill suit crinkling as he does, reflecting like an ocean over the body. He smiles, just slightly at the corners of his mouth as he uses carful, gloved fingers to close the eyelids, eyes no longer gaping open at the air. No longer seeing. 

Will feels a sense of relief wash over him. Satisfaction and euphoria riding over his too warm skin in sweet, cooling, waves. He’s done. 

Hannibal stands again, a quick and fluid movement, towering over the body like a God. Will looks up at him, neck craning until it aches. “Beautiful work,” Hannibal tells him, watching Will with carful eyes. 

Will thinks he could cry, let hot tears run down his cheeks and wash away the sticky mess of red. 

“How do you feel?”

“Quiet,” Will says, sagging, the knife finally clattering from his hand to the ground below. There’s no buzzing in his head, fluttering behind his eyelids, begging for more. Craving the feel of skin giving way under his hands. He feels at peace again, at least for now. “Thank you.”

Hannibal smiles, a thin and honest line, his teeth peeking out. “Of course, Will, anything you need.”

He knows it’s true. Hannibal has never let Will’s mind go hungry for too long, always feeding it with fresh, beautiful bodies to make their offerings with. Hannibal kills for him, and in turn, he creates for Hannibal. 

Will feels dizzy, a numb sort of haze washing over him in place of adrenaline or panic. He knows what he’s done, but he doesn’t fear it, he doesn’t regret it. Instead he finds love in his work, deep and pure and righteous. He goes to stand, to join Hannibal at the head of his temple, but his knees buckle, he weighs nothing at all, and yet he is weighed to the earth like a ton of stones. 

Will inhales the sharp metallic scent of blood, heavy on the back of his tongue. He lets the carnage setting in his teeth, jaw aching. 

“Shall we return home?” Hannibal asks, carefully making his way back to where Will kneels, bloody and chilled. 

There was a time that his head was full of doubt and worry. There was a time he tried to dissuade his feverish mind of what he needed, of what he so desperately wanted. Now, he can hardly think of a time before, one that wasn’t filled with Hannibal and their kills, and the way it settles everything inside him like puzzle pieces clicking into place. 

“Please,” he gasps, and he feels like he’s being pulled under water, deeper and deeper until the pressure is near crushing. 

Hannibal grins, let’s him drown a while longer as he swipes a finger through the blood at Will’s feet, feeds it too him through parted lips. He licks at it eagerly, tasting the plastic of Hannibal’s gloves. 

“Come,” Hannibal says finally, after his glove is clean again. He takes a hold of Will’s outstretched arms, begging for purchase. He pulls him up swiftly and easily, letting Will fall against him, heavy and bloody, sated. He lets Will breath, ragged and desperate, hands grasping at the plastic of his suit, red streaking the material in beautiful trails of desperation. “I have you, I’ve got you.”

Hannibal runs a hand over Will’s shoulder, down his back. Firm, grounding. Slow, steady circles. 

“Thank you,” Will rasps, head above water again. Hannibal will keep him afloat. “Thank you.”

Hannibal makes a noise, deep and pleased in the back of his throat, a gloved hand carding through Will’s messy curls. He preens at the touch, craves it. Hannibal gives him everything he needs, spares him the hurts of the world, of his brain. 

Hannibal is safety. 

Will tilts his head up, looking into the deep maroon of Hannibal’s eyes, steady and certain. He presses his lips to Hannibal’s, feels the crack of dried blood flake away between them, let’s him press his tongue into his mouth. 

Hannibal is Holy.


End file.
